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Rinnir Stonejaw
Rinnir Stonejaw (WIP) Description: First impressions? Red. Very red. And green. An eye that flashes like fire-bound malachite regarded the viewer with suspicion, if not outright hostility. Its brother was covered by a handmade patch, bruising and scabs visible around the perimeter of the rugged leather. The sunken eyes were set into an angular face. Devoid of the fat that softened the visages of his bretheren, the Dwarf looked quite a bit more gruff than would be expected. This was not a good-looking man, after all. Thick eyebrows, angled and severe exacerbate this. They were the same colour as his hair, a fiery red, pulled back into a topknot. Unfortunately, half of the Dwarf's face is disfigured. Extensive burn-scars cover a good amount of Rinnir's face, nearly reaching his single working eye. The skin is wrinkled and heavily-veined, oftentimes flaking away, and altogether something that would rather be hidden behind a mask. Every Dwarf's pride and joy, his beard is combed and clasped with bone-and-brass ornaments, jangling and clinking with every step. Upon these are runic markings which surround small holes painstakingly chisled into the yellowed-white surfaces. Cord strung through the clasps connects them to a myriad of paper charms that blow in the wind, seemingly with lives of their own. Below the head? Rinnir is large. A bit tall for a Dwarf, he is nonetheless still heavily muscled, white lines calling for attention among the tanned skin on his shoulders and arms, evidence of a life not without conflict. This was not the body of some vain mirror-absorbed individual, however. It was a body tailored from years of living in the wild to simply *survive*. Large it was, but attractive? Not a chance. Clad in leathers and bone, he cuts a primitive figure, if not a savage one. The fifth finger on his left hand missing, no doubt from some foray into the wild gone wrong; Rinnir bears the scars and sun-weariness of a survivalist, broken up by rings of runic tattoos and bone piercings. Some see a work of art in this, others an anachronistic savagery. Personality: The narrowed eyes, heavy brow, and thick eyebrows all serve to give off the portrayal of a very severe Dwarf. This would be completely correct. Rinnir is a no-nonsense fellow of few words, preferring to let his fists do the talking more often than not. Years of solitude have given him a bit of a unappreciative outlook on other living company, instead opting to remain distant from even those he considers close friends. This can lead to people assuming he is standoffish, or even purposely confrontational. He can, however, establish a close bond with those kindred spirits that have lost much and gained little. What strange irony that misery is what allows him to find brotherhood. The outdoorsman has no tolerance for fools or mischief-makers, but that isn't to say he cannot appreciate a good bit of levity now and then. But only when appropriate. History: The following is an excerpt out of stuff I like writing in my free time. I shamelessly steal ideas and concepts from better authors. The Tanaris sands lay silent, inky blackness pooling across the frozen waves. An unnatural dark, some would say, but certain minds know better. Nothing is so simple, to be confined to a single word, and so it was that this night was split. Split into three distinct parts, swirling together to dampen spirits and firelight. The most obvious was an absence, an echoing hole made by those things that were lacking. If light had graced the dunes, the long shadows would play amongst the waves of heat, coax wildlife from nocturnal slumber, and brushed the darkness away, banished to caves and unknown places. If there had been movement, even a few creatures stirring in the bracing cold, skitters and stomps, shifting sands and swirling tails would have brought a different kind of light. For the desert, silence, much like darkness, fell like a woolen blanket as the sun trailed under the horizon. There were none of these things, and so the darkness remained. Amidst the countless grains of sand was a singular Dwarf, huddled around a flickering fire. Where he had found enough wood to sustain the paltry flame was beyond the casual observer, the small fire struggling against the all-encompassing black. The shifts of leather on cloth, slight jangling of chimes, and clacking of bone on bone added an alloy to the blackness, a benchmark in which the lone night seemed all the more daunting. Now the third darkness, this was special. One couldn't notice it by simply opening their eyes. If you stayed for an hour, you may begin to feel it. A wrongness in the way the sands piled up, an edge to the ebb and flow of flickering firelight, rough sands and rougher leathers. In the weight of blackened embers that still gave off heat from a fire that was killed by the wind long ago. Perhaps in the slow back-and-forth rocking of the lone figure, paper charms scraping against the dune. In the hands in which he held a bone. In the fevered eyes, glazed over from excess drink. In the frantic mouth, incisors clattering and clashing over the gristle and sinew. His hands and hair were red as the long dead fire. The ale long lay forgotten at his side, a pool of stench-ridden wet sand rapidly forming. His movements were those of a man under sheer force of will, as if his body was only a puppet controlled by an inexperienced master. The desert, at this moment, was his. The third darkness, just as the desert, was his. As dark and deep as the dankest caverns, as heavy as Atlas' burden. It was a frenetic feel, the teething creating a staccato noise that gave sickly beat to the tarantella of his madness. One may ask, what animals lived in the desert that would yield such a bone? The burning huts standing vacant dunes behind held morbid answers, screaming their mourning in form of fire and blood. The Stonejaw snarled 'round the bone held captive between sets of vise-like teeth, bared in a predatory grin, stained from as much gore as firelight. What a lovely night. Commonly Known History/Status: "The Stonejaw" is a large Dwarf of few words, a traveler. Always a nomadic man, he came seemingly out of the wild and demanded employment with a set of Dwarven protectors known as the Vanguard. For years, he toiled with them, helping keep mountain and mine safe from threats both external and domestic. Eventually, his wildness got the better of him and he resigned his position, a lofty officership not held in comfort by the ascetic Dwarf. Wandering the land for months, he eventually came upon the employ of the Four Winds Trade Company. And while their antics and general ridiculousness was held in contempt by the large man, he felt a spark of brotherhood burning within. Perhaps that is why he remains with them? In any case, he defends his charges with a short-temper, world-weary wisdom, and a mysterious past. (ANGST ANGST ANGST) What little semblance of taste he had left a bitterness in his mouth. He enjoyed fish. It reminded him of his time spent on the sea. The smell of salt and the whips of the tide, marked by the hot sun and fresh fish. Maybe the life of an exile is what suited him. But this fish was sickly and corrupted. Served him right for fishing on the shores of Lordamere; fel knows what he was eating. He made his way down the coast eastward. Even after all the horrible atrocities, strife, and war, there remained the small fishing villages and cottages. He knew war raged on some unseen realm, but peace reigned where it had once seemed dark. Or so he thought, only for a moment. Looking across the lake he could see the heavy clouds and dark tidings of his enemies. He knew that that tide - above all others - would consume everything green. It was only a matter of time. He stopped again to rest and check his equipment. He held onto very little. A few daggers, a longsword, an ax to chop wood, and some rudimentary tools. He didn’t need much. Only a few trinkets to remind him of who he really was. Or atleast who he used to be. He continued on south on the road to Strahnbrad. He remembered from his youth going to the city. It was a bustling centre for trade, at the crossroads between elven cities, human castle, and dwarven strongholds. Now it was between ruins and wrecks and was abandoned. The Syndicate had taken over these lands, and all lawful men had fled otherwise; a consequence of having betrayed the Alliance in the war. He made his way to the blacksmith to find better rivets for his boots. The Alteraci may have fled, but they left most of their supplies behind. The fires in the forge were out, and it was dark. He stumbled over a pan, and swore at the pain. He heard something in the darkness. He peered out with unseeing eyes. Nothing answered back. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, then, that after over half a century of loneliness someone may answer his call. How foolish. He trudged along, rivets left behind in the now-cold forge, forgotten in the midst of shudders and shakes, remembrance of companionship slamming into his psyche like waves against rock. Little-to-Not-At-All-Known-Bullshit-History (AKA: If you use this ICly I'm going to slap you in the face unless your name is Gesche.) He stared. Not at anything in particular. The sky was a swirling mass of apocalyptic colour, after all. Pinks and greens shot through the clouds, heralding if not the end of the world, at least the end of his. Tied to a stone slab by all four limbs, the young Dwarf struggled. His eyes shut, attempting to drown out the sounds of frantic chanting and devout worship, as the greenish-blue hued trolls around him danced in respect for their heathen gods. One of them, dressed in ceremonial robes, tattered and blood-spattered with wear and obvious use, came up the stairs of the ziggurat. "Rak'toa." That was the only word the Dwarf could remember before the knife flashed in the day's last dying light, skewering the right side of his chest, the troll attempting to forcibly tear out one of his lungs. Breath was life, according to them, and the lungs were personifications of that life. A flash of red and a few moments later, the young Dwarf found himself on the ground, bonds broken, mouth filled with the acrid taste of troll-blood. The priest lay on the ground, head sacrificed to the god that governed the Dwarf's hunger. What little remained in his stomach was sprayed over the altar as he became sickened at the very thought. Upon shaky legs he escaped. Over the years, his appetite could not be quenched so easily. And on those same shaking legs the Dwarf took his macabre revenge on those who so horribly maimed him and his clan. The Boar smiled. Oh, how he had wanted a vessel as such. One devoid of morality, single-minded in task. He would break through all obstacles in order to achieve his goal. How strange. Rinnir Stonejaw is host to the Boar Loa. This is fact. Upon devouring an absurdly large amount of its worshippers, the Loa attempted to possess the Dwarf. Luckily for him, his willpower and Dwarven stubbornness kept his psyche intact, but now is forced to share it with a Troll-worshipped god. Accidents happen, yes?